Rush (Pandemic Sorrow #2) (11 page)

Chapter 16

I stared at the notepad, reading back over the words I had written, then hummed out a tune I felt went along with it. I heard the door to the elevators slide open, but I kept my eyes focused on the piece of paper.

Footsteps padded across the floor in my direction, and I sunk down further into the chair, hoping whoever it was hadn't recognized me. It was past one in the morning and I couldn’t sleep. Not even the Xanax I’d taken had managed to knock me out, and after lying in the bed for an hour, the hotel room felt cramped. I was antsy, tired of the road, tired of fucking hotels. I needed a more open space, so I'd come down to the lobby. Taking a seat in one of the stiff chairs to the far side of the room, I turned it so my back was to the open area.

“What are you doing out here?” Jules voice floated over the back of the chair.

I didn't turn around to answer her. I just shrugged, saying, “Don't know.”

“Aren't you worn out?”

“Can't sleep.” Scratching under my nose, I could still smell the girl I’d fucked earlier on my fingers.

“Me either,” she sighed, and made her way around my chair to sit next to me. “You guys have that radio thing early in the morning, you remember that, right?”

Sometimes I just wished that I didn't have to have someone reminding me of each damn move I had to make. I wished that everything wasn't so rushed, so busy. My life was work. There was no differentiation for me. I was Rush Wilder, on stage, off stage; I had to be him at the grocery store, doctor’s office. And it got old as shit.

Twirling the pen between my fingers, I arched a brow at her, snapping, “Yeah, I got that. Still doesn't mean I can sleep, you know?”

She blinked a few times. “Yeah. Got it. Stop being a dick.”

I went back to writing, expecting her to get up and leave since she'd had me accounted for, but she didn't.

Instead, she tossed her head back over the chair and groaned, rubbing her palms down her face before sitting back up and peering over my shoulder. “That a new song?”

“Yeah. Figured we could tack it onto the new album or something.”

She leaned over my shoulder to read it, and her scent forced me to close my eyes for a second and exhale to rid my senses of her. Jules was inches from my face, and I watched her lips move as she read the lyrics silently to herself.

“Whoa, those are some strong lyrics. ‘Watching you live without me, is killing me within. Hearing you love another, knowing you shouldn't be with him. Darkness come surround me, take me to my grave. There’s nothing for me living, if the one I need's not saved. Blanket me with peace now, give me room to breathe. Somehow I'll convince you, the part of life you need is me.’ ”

Jules narrowed one eye on me, her eyes glazing over while she tried to figure out who in the hell I'd written that about. “You've never been in a relationship since I've met you.” She paused and inquisitively tilted her head. “Is this why? Some girl totally fucked you up?” She shook her head and squinted. “I can't see that. I can't see anyone getting to you like this.”

The tone in her voice almost seemed hurt instead of shocked. Almost like she couldn't stand the thought that I may have actually ever cared about someone enough to write words like that.

I groaned, aggravated. “No. No girl fucked me up. Just writing shit I think will sell. Girls love shit like this, right?”

Her nostrils flared slightly and she stood up. “Yeah. I guess we do.” She laughed. “Kind of sick when you think about it, huh? The fact that we just want a guy to feel so much for us that they’d write something like that.” Jules paused and rubbed her hand over her forearm. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Yeah, sure thing, Mom.”

She shook her head and trudged through the marble lobby to the elevators.

I stared at that page, at those lyrics, knowing damn well the only person I'd ever let fuck with my head was Jules; fully aware that the girl who I'd written that song about had just read it and had no idea at all. And even if she did, it wouldn't have done a bit of good.

*****

Jag leaned over and snorted another line, then handed his straw to me. I quickly hovered over the powder, sucking it up in one long sniff. I couldn’t wait for that to kick in and wake my ass up. I’d never gone to sleep the night before, I couldn’t, and I was beyond exhausted.

Jag walked toward the door of the bus, then spun and went back to the table, dumping out another pile of blow and drawing out lines.

“What in the hell are you doing, dude?” I tossed my hands up in the air and shrugged. “You just did three lines, that’s enough!”

His hands were shaking. He was in full-blown feen-mode. “I just gotta do one more line. After today, I’m fucked. I told her I’d stopped. I promised her. I told her…I can’t do it after today!” He leaned down and snorted another line, immediately cutting out several more.

I just stared at him, in complete shock. He had lost all control. I had never seen him so desperate, so incoherent. He leaned over to do another line and, without thought, I swiped the powder into the floor. His eyes flew open and his nostrils flared as he balled his fist up and slammed it into the side of my face.

Out of instinct, I clenched my fist and punched him back, busting his lip open. He threw another swing and busted my brow. Backing away, I shouted, “Hey, dude! Fuck. What the hell are we doing?”

“You…you…” He was panting. “You knocked my fucking coke off the table!”

I wiped the trickle of blood from my face, staring at the bright red liquid now covering my fingertips. “Yeah, because you’re about to kill your fucking self. You just did four lines of high quality coke, Jag. I’m not gonna let you kill yourself. Just…”

I shook my head, still staring at him. He looked like a crackhead, like someone I didn’t even know. “Just calm down, dude. Calm down. If she can’t accept the fact that you got a bit of a problem, then what good is she for you?”

Jag let out a groan and blotted the drying blood from his lip. “Man, I’m sorry. I just…I like her. Just don’t want to let her down, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it. But killing yourself would probably be a bigger letdown than her finding out you’ve been lying.” I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him. “Come on, let’s go get this shit over with.”

As soon as we walked into the studio, Jules’ eyes widened and she shot out of her seat, the chair rolling back against the wall with a bang. “What the hell is this? Why is there blood all over your faces?”

Jag chuckled and plopped down in one of the chairs, placing his feet up on the disc jockey’s desk and crumpling some papers with the heel of his boot.

Jules glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Get your foot off the desk.”

Jag dragged his feet from the desk, scattering the papers over the floor.

“For the love of God,” Jules muttered. “Did you guys get into a fight…with
each
other?”

Nodding, I laughed. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Jag spun his chair around a few times, then grabbed onto Jules hips to stop himself—“it all started when I said you probably had one of those seventies porn star bushes covering your sad little pussy. Rush didn’t like that. It just escalated from there.”

She shook her head and leaned against the wall. “Okay, Jag. I don’t really want to know anyway. You both look great with black eyes, by the way, suits you both.” She massaged her temples, mumbling, “Dumbasses” under her breath.

The door opened and a middle-aged man trotted in. “Pandemic Sorrow! So fucking excited to have you guys here at The Edge.” He stuck his hand out to me, and I gave him a half-ass shake.

We sat in there for thirty minutes, playing up our international tour, talking about the new album, and answering questions from call-ins. It was mundane and boring, and most of the questions were, of course, directed at Jag. One girl offered to pay him for sex. That call ended the moment she moaned into the phone and claimed she was masturbating to the Jag-shrine she had built in her bedroom.

I was in a daze, kind of staring at the wall and not even really thinking about anything, just shaking my legs, letting those involuntary muscle twitches that sometime accompany a coke high sporadically pulse their way through me.

The jockey cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone. “Go ahead, Tonia, you’re on the line.”

“Oh, hi. Wow, I’m a huge Pandemic Sorrow fan, you guys are awesome.”

In unison, we said, “Thanks.” Stone muttered out a delayed, “Appreciate that.”

She let out a breath, then continued. “So, my question is for Rush, he’s my favorite, God, he is so sexy the way he flings his hair around when they’re playing.” A sated moan vibrated over the line.

Jag shot me a glare. Pointing at the speakers, he circled his finger around his temple like the chick was nuts for not confessing her love to him.

“Rush, I’ve followed you guys since you first came out, and you’re the only one of the guys that has never had a girlfriend. Why?”

Jag busted out in laughter. “I’ll tell you why, Tanya—”

“Tonia,” she corrected him.

“Yeah, my bad, Tony. Rush is a dildo, that’s why. He’s not relationship material.”

I flipped him a quick bird and cleared my throat. “And Jag is one to talk, right?”

A giddy giggle floated through the speakers.

“Music’s just been my focus. I don’t feel I have the time to devote to a relationship, you know.” I glanced over at Jules, then down at the floor.

I’d never really thought about it, never cared. I’d just been fucking, trying to fulfill whatever it was that was empty inside me. “I don’t know, Tonia, I guess I just haven’t found the right girl yet, or maybe the right girl just hasn’t realized she’s found me.”

Another quick look in Jules’ direction, and I found her eyes locked on me.

The DJ gave me a thumbs up. “Great question, Tonia. Well, looks like we’re all out of time. We’ll have some tickets up for grabs at the end of the hour for their London show next month, airfare and hotel accommodations included. Meanwhile, be on the lookout for their new album,
Sanctity
, due to hit three months from today.”

Stone slapped the back of my head. “That was some sappy shit right there. Sometimes I think you’re an evil genius when it comes to getting pussy, you know that? That comment, ‘maybe the right girl hasn’t realized she’s found me,’ absolute gold, man. Platinum even.”

“Yeah,” I groaned.

I’m a fucking tool because I won’t chase what belongs to me.

Chapter 17

Finally back in LA, and what is the first thing I did? Go out with the guys to a club.

I jogged across the intersection, a car honking its horn at me even though it was three hundred feet away. Stone and Pax were surrounded by a swarm of girls. As soon as I walked up, several of the girls’ necks snapped around and their glossed lips curled up into wider smiles.

“Hey, man. You got the shit with you?” Stone asked, draping his arm around one of the girls.

I nodded and swiped some of the hair from in front of my eyes. “Yeah. That’s what took me so long. I only had two tabs.”

“What?” Pax’s face scrunched up. “You just bought a shit-ton of roll the other day. How much are you fucking doing?”

“I think Jag raided my stash.” I shrugged. “He came over after Roxy went to work the other day and went crazy, shoving shit down his throat. Guess he probably took some shit home with him.”

A curly-headed blonde took a few timid steps toward me. “Can I touch you?”

The questions you get asked when you’re famous.

“You can touch me, sure. Anywhere you’d like, with whatever you’d like.”

She placed her hand on my chest and her eyes widened as she sucked in a deep breath. Her fingers bunched the thin material of my shirt, and I watched her pant from sheer excitement.

“I prefer lips on my cock, but I guess we have to start somewhere, huh?”

Those shiny pink lips of hers darted up into a closed-lip smile.

Stone stepped out from the crowd, peering around a few people. “Is that…Jules? What the hell is she doing here? I didn’t know she went out, or had a life, or anything like that?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets, swallowing and trying to peer around the large, leopard-print-covered ass blocking my view.

The girl who’d been stroking her hand across my chest, feeling more comfortable, slid her arm around my waist and clung to me. She pulled in a deep breath, burying her nose in the crevice of my neck. “Shit, you smell good.”

Stretching my neck a little more to the side, I saw Jules. She was laughing and she flirtatiously slapped her hand over the chest of some guy she was with. He leaned down and kissed her. Now I was butthurt.

There I stood, my eyes glued to her, and jealousy beginning to sear its way through me. I felt the girl press her lips against my neck, but I ignored it and kept my eyes trained on Jules and the dickhead she was with.

The guy finally released her, but that did little to relax the tension forming in my shoulders. Jules fished around in her purse and pulled out a mirror to make sure her lipstick hadn’t smeared all over her face. When she shut the compact, I noticed that she saw me. I didn’t wait, I just grabbed the girl next to me by the sides of her face and forced my lips over hers while wadding her hair up in my hands. The girl’s body relaxed, and a moan broke free as her hands flailed all over me.

It wasn’t that I wanted to be making out with this chick, but that I wanted Jules to see me making out with this chick. If she could act like she didn’t care about me and strut around with a douchebag, well, I could do the same thing. I had a forte in childish behavior.

Even with my eyes closed, the flashes from cameras were apparent. Several people yelled and whistled, and then the bouncer tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, my hands still grasping the girl’s face, and he pointed toward the door. “You gonna go in, or do you need to go home?”

I spun the girl around, holding her by the hips as I walked into the club. I lost myself in a place packed with sweaty strangers, focusing on the people around me so I wouldn’t see Jules with that other guy.

That next night I laid awake in my bed. I was miserable. I’d called Jules before we’d gone out that night, just wanting to talk to her. I insisted that I needed to know the fuck-and-suck schedule for the upcoming tour. That was the pathetic excuse I used to call her. She hadn’t appreciated it when I told her that fucking a Russian chick was on my bucket list and I needed her to arrange for that shit to happen—not at all, and she hung up on me. I had intended to try to get her to come out; obviously, I needed practice on how to get a girl without sarcasm and perversion.

I made my way to my bathroom and pulled out the drawer. Everything in the drawer was in disarray, which I’d assumed was due to Jag coming over on his way to pick Roxy up. I was pretty sure he’d come up here and downed whatever he could since he was playing sober around her.

I opened the sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed me without ever having met me and dumped a few into my palm. Turning the faucet on, I slapped them into my mouth and leaned down to take a drink.

I stumbled back to my bed, flinging myself back in it. My room was cold and felt empty. Actually, my entire damn house felt empty. I had four guest rooms, and only two had ever been used, and that had been by Jag and River, the other by Stone and whoever had sacrificed their pussy to him.

Empty.

I had this huge-ass house just for show. I was alone in it. And loneliness was kind of just part of this life.

Lonely.

When I really thought about it, it was pretty pathetic and sad. Fame ruins you. It’s not easy to handle. Part of me wondered how long it would be before it all ended. Most bands that reached the magnitude of fame we had achieved ended from something devastating, or because everyone fell apart. And what would I do then? I think each of us was beginning to fall to pieces on the inside. It was like a countdown; I could hear the timer ticking away, but I had no idea when the alarm would go off. And it scared me. Once you have shit like fame, once you are idolized by society, how the hell are you supposed to let that go? That would be a comedown that would fucking kill someone.

Pathetic.

I was a fucking show pony. We all were. The tabloids made it look glamorous, and it was—until it was three in the morning and I was lying awake in bed with someone whose name I usually couldn’t recall. Even a famous rocker needs someone to make them feel needed. I had a thousand people that should have made me feel wanted, but what I really needed was just one. And just how the hell is a whore supposed to ever just get one?